Sweet Petals of Bloody Death
by MyOwnPersonalNote
Summary: My take on what would've happened if Misa died. SPOILER ALERT!  Kind of  e e Rated M for te blood.


_**Enjoy.**_

_"Home is where the heart is and friendship is a guest. A book, a fire, a handclasp; a place where souls can rest."_

As I hold her frail, writhing body in my blood-soaked arms I wonder to myself, "Who was this woman?" I use the past tense _was_ because I know that even though she is still rasping away her final breaths she won't last for long.

I can see it in her eyes. Death.

It isn't pretty. It's sickening. It's morbid. It's downright depressing.

It isn't ugly. It's beautiful. It's lovely. It's so very intriguing.

Life at its finest. That's what death is, I think.

Like a wilting flower.

As a bud, you can't smell the flower too well. It's still young, not fully developed.

In bloom, while the smell is evident it is overpowering. Like a young adult in the prime of their life.

And then it begins to wilt. Like a dying human who has lived life to the fullest and is ready to pass on to the next realm, the wilting flower is much like this in many aspects. The wilting flower is not just a dying piece of Mother Earth. No, it is _much_ more than this. The wilting flower is a thing of beauty that all people should enjoy to the fullest. As the plant dies, you see it as its most vulnerable. Aged, defensless, and ripe, the wilting flower is a thing that you can stop and smell. It is not something to be offended by or to take imposition on, but to be appreciated and loved until its last bit of life is spent on this Earth.

In a wilting flower you can smell the sweet, aged aroma that is Death.

Life at its finest. That's what it is.

So when she looks directly into my eyes, her light brown orbs full of fear and resentment, I smile at her. I smile because much like a wilted flower, she looks...

Absolutely stunning.

Absolutely terrified.

But much to my surprise, she smiles back, her bloodied lips pulling up at the corners in a gesture of what looks like satisfaction.

I stare at her, my eyes full of confusion and even more so, curiosity. I look at this wilting flower as I would a specimen in a science lab, or a feline with an interest in a butterfly.

_Thank you...for a...final...smile..._

She speaks. She doesn't speak very well, her voice feeble and raspy, but somehow, just under that exterior I can hear a beautiful voice that can sing with the birds. When she utters these words, she lifts a weak hand to my face, her bloody fingers brushing past my lips.

I taste her blood on my tongue.

But just after she lifts her hand to me, the weak hold on her muscles loosens and her hand slides down my face. She takes one last breath, her chest heaving, her lungs giving in to the weight of the thick liquid pooling inside of her. She writhes in my arms, each shiver less enthusiastic than the last, until she finally stills, a slight wet gurgle heard in the back of her throat.

Her body slowly starts to cool, a hue of pale purple taking over her features.

Her blood already starts to chill, the thick, slimy crimson turning to a crusty rust brown.

I don't know how long I am sitting here with her body. It seems like forever, but then again time seemed to stop when she fell almost perfectly into my arms.

Her vacant eyes stare up at mine, the once healthy brown orbs she posessed now mere shells of what used to be there not moments ago.

I hear sirens.

I see lights.

I smell blood.

I feel the officer's grip on my arm as he pulls me to my feet, almost uselessly numbed for sitting on my knees for what seems like hours. He pushes me toward a patrol car, opens the door for me, seats me in the back.

I look out the window and spot a zipped-up, blood-stained body bag being strolled into the back of an ambulance, the medics clearly in no rush to get to the hospital.

An officer climbs into the driver's seat of the patrol car, starts the engine.

On go the sirens. My ears are ringing as the frequency of the god-forsaken thing pierces my brain, my senses offended.

I look into the rearview mirror and catch the officer's gaze, his eyes screaming pity.

I look away, my gaze falling to my lap. I notice numerous dried blood stains on my pants and shirt. I lift my hands and realize that they're covered in blood as well. The metallic scent of her blood fills my nostrils, though I am well-away from her body. The image of the crimson-red liquid clouds my brain, my thoughts filled with the look in her eyes, small tears of blood rolling down her flushed cheeks. My brain is centered on this image, and even though I want to forget already, it just keeps coming back.

The smell.

The sight.

The _taste_.

It ravages my brain, my senses keen on that one specific moment in time when her hand connected with my lips, her very blood slipping by my teeth, past my tongue, and down my throat.

That single drop is what has my senses clouded.

I look into the rear-view mirror and see the officer staring out the windshield at the dusk road ahead of us, his features slightly twisted in distaste at the potent smell filling the car.

So it isn't just me that smells it.

**So this is just a slightly lengthy drabble about what happened when Misa Amane died, or more specifically what **_**would've**_** happened if she **_**did**_** kill herself. Yeah, for those of you who think that she really did, look it up. Oh, and while I'm at it, that chick at the end of the 12th book wasn't Misa. Sorry to throw that in there, but it's just something that's been gnawing at my innards, the fact that people **_**insist**_** that it's her.**

**Ahem, all pissy rants aside, the person who's POV this was taken from is one of my own characters. He doesn't have a name yet, but he might be in one of my future stories. I'm also thinking of making another installation to this one-shot.**

**Depending if you guys want it or not.**

**So review! Critques are encouraged, flames are welcomed, blahdy blahdy blah.**


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